


Tenderized

by longwhitecoats



Series: Staccato [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM, Developing Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, neuroatypical character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will lets something slip to Dr. Lecter in one of their conversations. Dr. Lecter isn't about to let it go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenderized

"It's just--you remind me of someone," Will says, not meaning to.  
  
Hannibal's face doesn't shift. Will suspected a long time ago that Hannibal is also neuroatypical; he reacts more finely, more deliberately than anyone else Will knows. Sometimes it's entirely professional training, Will knows, it must be, especially around him; when Will is really keyed up and Hannibal's talking him down, he has that same slow-motion aura about him that everybody else does, like a hunter trying not to startle a deer. What makes Hannibal different is the way that he seems to select his reactions on purpose, seems to choose the way he arranges his face. It's like watching someone speak a foreign language, except in this case, the language is Humanity. Will knows that feeling of alienation, knows it well, but in his case the responses come too fast, shift too quickly from what he thinks someone wants to see into what he means into what he thinks the other person thinks he ought to mean into how he reacts to what he imagines the other person will do when they see  _him_  react... Will is a firehose of expressions and emotions. Hannibal is a koi pond. Will knows he's watching something carefully manicured, but he finds it calming.  
  
And, he reminds himself, he finds it tempting to imagine what those cold, elegant fish are doing below the surface.  
  
But he can't let himself think about that.  
  
Hannibal raises his eyebrows: he's chosen to display surprise. "I remind you of someone," he says. "Is this someone you would like to talk about?"  
  
Will blushes. Then he runs his hands over his face because he's realized he's blushing at something Hannibal doesn't know, which thing is: why Hannibal reminds him of this other person, except Hannibal didn't know that, but now Hannibal  _does_  know that  _something_  embarrassing is happening in his head, or why would he blush? and then he just gives up and growls and flops his head back on the chair with his mouth open. A quiet, high-pitched keening escapes from his mouth like air leaking from a small balloon.  
  
"You don't have to talk about him," Hannibal says equanimously.  
  
Will's head pops up at that. "Him," he says. "You could tell it was a him?"  
  
Hannibal opens a palm: admission, acknowledgment, conceding a point. "My presumptions run ahead of me. I admit I would be surprised if you told me I reminded you of a woman. In my experience, patients rarely associate across gender lines. But this is not universal."  
  
"Huh," Will says, feeling trapped. He ought to explain, but he  _can't_  explain, not this, not to Hannibal, not to his--well, is Hannibal his therapist, or are they friends having a conversation? But he can't be tempted, no, there are things Hannibal shouldn't be subjected to, and anyway they're co-workers on a series of  _very_  delicate investigations. But after that kiss from Alana, something woke up in Will that had been sleeping for a long, long time, and now he can feel its warm wet nosings around the inside of his psyche. He knows something is going to give. He also knows that when something gives, it's almost always him. But he can't, he shouldn't, it isn't fair to Hannibal to spread his mess all over him, too, to make those beautiful starched shirts wet with sweat and other things...  
  
"It was. A him," Will says, his voice rougher than he meant it to sound.  
  
Hannibal tilts his head to one side. He does not smile. This is not meant to be threatening, Will thinks; this is invitation, expression of concern and interest without emotional judgment or amusement. He is taking Will seriously. He surely must also be getting tired of this dance, of Will, but he hasn't, somehow he's stayed, like an elegantly mannered great dane that knows its new owner is less well trained than it is. Will shakes his head.   
  
"It wasn't a him?" Hannibal says, misinterpreting the head shake.  
  
"No. It was. I mean, I, sorry," Will says. "Look, I can't remember the last time I slept and I don't really trust myself to make good decisions about what comes out of my own mouth right now."  
  
"Clearly you would like to discuss this," Hannibal says. He leans forward: interpersonal contact, willingness to share space in close proximity. Intimacy. Comradeship. "If you were a patient, I would say: this is your hour. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about."  
  
Will leans forward too, folds his hands between his knees just like Hannibal, is aware of the movement even as he is also aware that mimicry of a conversational partner's physical positioning is a subconscious sign of agreement, even as he is aware that he doesn't want to agree, he is agreeing, he can't help it, Hannibal is right. He's always right. "I'm not your patient."  
  
"A fact you no doubt reminded Alana Bloom of as well."  
  
That sends an icewater spike through Will's chest and, seconds later, a tight grip of warmth between his legs as he thinks through how dangerous this is, talking to co-workers like this about his mental health, and then realizes Hannibal means _when Will kissed her_ , oh god,  _like an idiot_ , and does that mean, that can't possibly mean, but surely it does suggest that he might mean that Hannibal thinks Will would like to find himself in similar circumstances right now, and if that's true then his cover is utterly, utterly blown and he should just pony up and fucking  _tell_  him, they're friends, Will owes him that much.  
  
Hannibal's eyes are dancing all over Will's face. His mouth curves up slightly: he is amused.   
  
Will blows out a puff of air. "Okay. You got me." He puts his face in his hands, then runs his hands through his hair, then stands up and walks over to the wall. The bookcase. He turns, hands in his back pockets. "If you want me to leave after I say this, I'll understand."  
  
Hannibal nods.  
  
"Man." Will looks down at the floor, trying to think how to frame this, which embarrassing fact to reveal in what order and with what word. He wishes he had Hannibal's gift for arranging things. Words. Food on a plate. People. "I'm telling you this because-- I brought it up because it's hard not to think about it when I'm here. And then I get distracted merging my memories and-- my fantasy life--"  _fantasies_ , he had been about to say, and Hannibal hears it anyway, he's pretty sure-- "Which is not good for me in terms of trying to have a relationship with someone that isn't founded on some skewed internal-monologue view of the world." Then he blushes, because he definitely just said  _relationship_ , but he can't go back now. "So I guess this is clearing the air. And--I'm sorry."  
  
"Will," Hannibal says softly, "tell me."  
  
Will walks back to the chair he'd been sitting in, leans over it on both hands. He grips the upholstery. "You remind me of this guy I used to play with," he says, getting it out at last.  
  
Something happens to Hannibal's face then that Will can't describe. It's like a flash of headlights in rain: some illumination of secret activity quickly dispersed into ambiguity. "Play?" he asks. "Are you a musician, Will?"  
  
Will laughs in spite of himself. Then, "No," he says, sobering, thinking of Tobias, not wanting to, but unable not to. "Not that kind of play."  
  
Hannibal waits.  
  
"I--it was at a club," he says, "originally. One of those clubs you go to only at certain hours. For particular crowds. I had been going for a while but I never bought into the gear, anything like that. I just went in my normal clothes. I don't know what made me go the first time--maybe I was just curious. But it was impossible not to go back. After I heard it. It was like an exorcism. Seeing--hearing--all those bodies--people--in pain. But they were so happy. It was like--transforming the darkness into, I don't know, something bearable."  
  
"You tried it," Hannibal says quietly. His expression is perfectly still, but his eyes glitter in the low light.  
  
"Yeah," Will says. "I mean, of course. I couldn't not try it. I was scared. Obviously. But after a couple times the fear of never knowing what it felt like overcame the anxiousness. I hate talking to people," he says, glancing up with a half-smile even as he says it, because he's talking to a person now, isn't he? and after a moment Hannibal's mouth twitches up, too--expression of understanding, a shared joke, reinforcement of trust--but his eyes stay focused and serious. "But I introduced myself and asked if he would do some of what he was doing to me, too." Will was watching his hands, now, unable to look back up at Hannibal. "He was very good at what he did. He never left marks, and he never overstepped the boundaries we set together. He never told." Now Will does look up. "And neither did I until now."  
  
Hannibal is completely silent and unmoving. Will supposes it's his own kind of automatic reaction, this stillness. He envies Hannibal his stillness. He wishes he could tuck away all his messy desires and shames and revelations into the folds of a blue woolen suit. But he can't. Which is why he started going to the club in the first place.  
  
"I appreciate your telling me this, Will," Hannibal says, and Will's heart sinks, it's a let-down, Hannibal is trying to be as polite as possible. What did he expect? Why did he even mention it? Why couldn't he at least have come onto Hannibal in a normal way, said flat out  _I'd like to date you_ , or even just taken him out to a bar and had one too many cocktails or whatever the fuck normal people did nowadays, but Will doesn't know what normal people do, not really, and frankly he doesn't want to know, even that thing with Alana wasn't normal. It was wonderful and sad, but it wasn't normal. But at least they talked about it. He should've done better with Hannibal. This was clumsy and disrespectful. This is awkward now, and it will be more awkward later, and then he tunes back in:  
  
"---not sure I can provide exactly what you're looking for, but--"  
  
"What?" Will says. "Say that again?"  
  
Hannibal narrows his eyes. Re-evaluation, that means, and selecting words carefully, even more than usual. "I was saying," he says, "that I appreciate your telling me this, because it permits me to make an offer to you that I had previously been doubtful you would entertain. This offer may not be exactly what you're looking for. But," and here he looks up meaningfully, catching Will's eyes, which Will hates most of the time, it makes him feel pinned, but now feeling pinned makes warmth creep up his belly and his neck and makes his breath come short, god, just listening to Hannibal say this is turning him to gelatin, "that is why we have negotiations about such things."  
  
"Hannibal," Will says, breathless, "did you just agree to negotiate a BDSM scene with me?"  
  
Hannibal stands up and buttons his jacket. "Of course I did," he says. "I have never shied away from unusual experiences."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to toft for encouraging me to post this.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Tenderized](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311603) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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